


A Kiss With a Fist (Is Better Than None)

by alwaysamy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-17
Updated: 2010-12-17
Packaged: 2017-10-13 17:57:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/140087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alwaysamy/pseuds/alwaysamy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is in despair. Castiel is only trying to help. Neither one of them expects to end up where they do. Porn without a whole lot of plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Kiss With a Fist (Is Better Than None)

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually a timestamp scene for a fic I haven't finished yet. Oops? Timeline is immediately post My Bloody Valentine.

No one answers him, not that he really expected help. Dean’s not even sure who he was praying to, because it’s clearer than ever that God has left the building, and the angels sure aren’t the crack support team so many people think they are.

He slides down next to the shell of an ancient Nova, ass in the dirt, not that he cares. He’s too worn out to stand anymore, not to mention more than a little drunk. He’s tired in his bones, in his fucking blood cells, of everything, all of it. The idea of picking himself up and making his way back to the house, where Sam is puking and screaming in the basement, and Bobby is drinking and denying in the study, and Cas is doing whatever the fuck he does, if he’s even still around … No. That’s bordering on Herculean, a trek up Everest in Bermuda shorts with just a bottle of water.

It’s a sign of just how exhausted he is that he doesn’t even hear the ripple of wings. Just Castiel’s voice, firm and disapproving, somewhere over his left shoulder. “You can’t give up, Dean.”

“No?” he grunts. The night air is damp and cold on his face, and he stares at the flat rear tire of the old pickup across the lot instead of looking at Cas. “Watch me.”

“There is still much work to be done, Dean, still a chance to--”

“I don’t care!” It’s a roar, and he doesn’t care. Let them all hear, angels and demons and humans, too. He’ll yell it up and down every street corner if he has to. “I’ve had it, Cas. I’m _done_.”

“You say that every time you lose a battle. And you didn’t lose this one, you have Famine’s ring, you have--”

“What, Cas?” The sudden motion makes his stomach roll in protest, but he’s climbing to his feet anyway, pushing Cas up against the Nova with both hands. “What do I have? An addict brother with a guilt complex, a semi-suicidal hunter with bum legs, and a psychopath archangel chasing me all over the frigging country. That’s what I have, and you know what? You can take it all back!”

He’s panting, dizzy with adrenaline and sheer outrage, and he takes a clumsy step backward.

And there’s Castiel, furrowing his brow like Dean has rejected his vegetables instead of his whole goddamn life. “Dean, I know it must seem awful to you but--”

“It’s not awful,” Dean spits out, scrubbing a hand over his head and he turns around and paces into the gravel. “It’s a fucking nightmare! It’s hell right here on earth, and I gotta say, Cas, been there, done that, came home with the t-shirt.”

Cas’s hand on his shoulder is startling, too tight, fingers digging in like they’re going to raise him up again, and he whirls without thinking, throwing a punch that catches Cas square on the jaw. It’s like hitting iron, a shocking white rush of pain that blinds him for a second.

Which is probably why he doesn’t see Cas’s fist coming, just feels the crack as knuckles collide with his nose, and the wet heat of blood. He stumbles forward, and for a minute he can’t register anything but the jarring rattle of bones. Vaguely, he can hear Cas shouting, but the sound doesn’t resolve into words until he pushes away again, blinking and panting.

“...all for you, because I had faith in you, Dean, and do you know what I have now? _Do you?”_

He has an idea, not that he cares right now. Right now, he can’t register anything but the blue blaze of Cas’s eyes and the way his blood is pounding furiously. So he grabs Cas by the arms and pulls him closer, nose to nose, hissing, “You can have this.”

It’s not really a kiss. It’s more of a crash, violent enough to make Dean’s teeth vibrate and his bruised nose throb. His bottom lip snags on a tooth, his or Cas’s, he’s not even sure, but it barely stings. For that half a second, all he knows is the heat of Cas’s mouth, and the startling solidity of Cas’s body pressed between himself and the car. _Want_ is the one word that flashes through his head, hot neon blinking at him like a beacon, and he pulls away as quickly as he moved in.

The shock on Cas’s face is priceless. And fleeting, it turns out, because in the time it takes Dean to blink, that expression slides into curiosity and something very close to hunger.

 _“Dean.”_ It’s an honest-to-god growl, and that’s all Dean needs. Cas meets him halfway this time, and Dean groans into his mouth as Cas grabs fistfuls of his shirt. The worn cotton tears and Dean’s got a second to think they need to get together on this before Cas is toppling him backwards, landing on him in the dusty gravel with a thud.

Sonofabitch, he’s going to feel this tomorrow.

“Cas,” he manages, a little more breathlessly than he’d like. His buzz is long gone, but he’s lightheaded and humming with adrenaline just the same. Cas swallows the word, kissing Dean like he’s been starved for it, and just about as gracefully, too. It’s wet and sloppy and hot, tongue and teeth and bumping noses, and Dean is struggling to breathe when he finally manages to roll them over, straddling Cas’s thighs with one hand planted in the center of his chest.

“You like that?” He rolls his hips forward and down in a nasty grind, and Cas shudders, grabs at him. “Yeah, you do. You do.”

“Dean.” He’s wild-eyed, overwhelmed, bucking up and still grasping, fingers of one hand tangled in Dean’s shirt and the other clamped around his thigh. “Dean, I don’t …”

“Yes, you do,” Dean says, leaning down to bite at Cas’s jaw, the soft hollow of his throat. “It’s good, don’t fight it. _Feel_ it.”

 _“Dean.”_ Again, like it’s the only word he can remember, and Dean is the one to shudder this time.

“Come on.” He has no idea if Cas knows where this is going, but he’s going to make sure he finds out. Rising up on his knees, Dean fumbles with Cas’s belt, the button and zipper of his trousers, until he’s got the hot, hard length of Cas’s dick in his hand. “There you go. Feel that?”

“Oh,” Cas groans. His narrow hips pump, pure instinct, Dean knows. “Oh, that’s … Dean.”

Dean jerks his own zipper down, nearly overbalancing, both hands full of cock, and jesus, this is so fucked up, he’s not even sure it’s happening. By the time he has them both in one hand, Cas is trembling, holding onto Dean’s thighs like he’s going to shake apart completely. Maybe he thinks he will.

Dean bends forward, sucking Cas’s bottom lip between his teeth, nipping it to feel the ripple of Cas’s groan. “It’s okay, just let it come.” His voice is shredded, a husk of sound, and his fist aches from clocking Cas earlier, but he keeps stroking and fucking into his hand, into the friction of Cas’s dick against it.

Cas takes Dean’s head in his hands, greedy and desperate, holding him there, nose to nose, and muttering something in what Dean thinks is Latin. “Yeah,” Dean grunts, working them harder, fast and clumsy, but it doesn’t matter, Cas is already twitching. He shakes through the first hot spurt, eyes shocked wide, and Dean crushes their mouths together as he finishes, spilling slick that makes the glide so much easier.

He follows a second later, face buried in Cas’s neck as he empties out in endless pulses. His heart is banging in his chest, and for a minute he just lies there, the smell of gravel dust and sweat and come sharp in his nose. His knees are already protesting and his fist is throbbing, but those sensations are distant, unimportant. He’s floating, boneless, washed clean somehow, even out here in the dirt, the shells of warped steel crouching around them.

It takes a minute before he’s aware of Cas’s fingers twisted in the hair at the scruff of his neck, the warm whisper of breath against his ear. He drags his hand out from between them and turns his head just far enough to nose Cas’s jaw. Cas opens his mouth when Dean slides two sticky fingers along his bottom lip, grunts when Dean pushes them inside. But he sucks at them, tongue moving slow and curious over Dean’s knuckles, and Dean closes his eyes as his cock stirs again.

He doesn’t see it coming, of course, eyes closed and still drifting, piled on top of Cas awkwardly. But he feels the fingers on his forehead for a just a moment, the soft sound of his name, maybe in his head, and when he wakes up he’s in Bobby’s spare room, alone.


End file.
